


Lucky

by Talithax



Category: Mission: Impossible - Ghost Protocol (2011)
Genre: Angst, Christmas, Happy Ending, M/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-03 10:33:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2847824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talithax/pseuds/Talithax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>... It's Christmas Eve, and all Will really wants is to be left alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lucky

**Author's Note:**

> ~ Narrated by Will  
> ~ Self beta'd (and quite possibly even more badly than usual courtesy of the house being full of guests for Christmas, so... Apologies in advance.)  
> ~ Christmas fic. Seriously. It's sole purpose is to exist as a Christmas fic.  
> ~ Should you start reading it and think... 'WTF? Why would I want to read this depressing pile of for Christmas?'... please, take comfort from the fact that if I'd wanted to be as subtle as a sledgehammer I would have used 'A Christmas Miracle' as a title. In other words, have faith.
> 
> ~ Wishing everyone a truly fabulous Christmas full of absolutely everything you want it to be full of! ~

=========  
Lucky  
by TalithaX  
=========

 

“Although I'm fairly certain I know the answer to this already, do you actually have any idea what time it is?” 

Shrugging, I reluctantly look up from the screen of my laptop and, for no real reason other than I know he won't go away until I've acknowledged him, glance over at Jake McDonald as he stands, frowning at me, in the doorway of my office. In his early thirties and good looking in a clean cut, boy-next-door type of way, Jake is the Analysis Section's resident... nice guy and, although both pleasant enough and essentially harmless, he'd just about have to be the last person I feel up to dealing with right now. Good natured, unflappable, always has a kind word to say about everyone, spends his free time volunteering in animal shelters, has a wife that bakes cookies for him to bring in and share with the office, he really is just one of those genuinely... nice guys and he means well. He really does. Neither of us need what's undoubtedly coming, though. Jake doesn't need to end his day – indulging in the mental equivalent of beating his head against a brick wall – with one last ditch attempt to confirm for himself that I haven't just been replaced with a robot when nobody was looking, and I don't need...

Any of it.

His obvious concern. The effort it will cost me to – play nice – politely see him on his way. To be reminded of...

Anything.

Everything.

I...

I just want to be left alone.

I'm alive, and I'm – as well as can be expected, anyway – functioning, and I'm doing my job, and...

It's enough.

Isn't it?

I'm playing my part, and I'm not, contrary to what I'm sure has to be the opinion of some, living in denial, and, not really knowing what more anyone could expect of me, all I want is to be left in peace.

“Will?” Jake prompts just a little hesitantly as, his frown giving way to an expression of obvious concern, he takes a small step in to the office. “Are you...”

“Late?” I offer by way of an answer to his original question as, really not needing to hear him ask if I'm okay, I force myself to flash him a wan smile.

“Sorry? I...”

“You originally asked if I knew what the time was,” I murmur with another shrug as, despite the fact he's most likely had it on all day, I notice for the first time that he's wearing a bright red knitted sweater emblazoned with a large green Christmas tree. “And... Uh... If I had to take a guess I'd say it was... late.”

“Well, late is certainly... one... way of putting it,” Jake replies with a cautious smile as, perhaps noticing that I'm now staring at it as though transfixed, he self-consciously smoothes down his sweater. “It's actually heading towards half-past eleven and... uh... although I know it's not my place or anything like that, I... I can't help but think that it's probably time for you to go home.”

“I...” Half-past eleven? Really? Damn. Although it doesn't matter in the slightest, it appears that it's both later than I thought it was and that – my, how time flies when you're avoiding life – I've been here for near on seventeen hours. “It...” Not knowing what to say to Jake that will just see him on his way without him wanting to, God forbid, put the effort in to attempting to save me from myself, I lean back in the chair and gesture at the laptop. “You're right. I didn't know it was quite this late, but seeing as I put my hand up to work tomorrow anyway I...”

“You're working tomorrow?” Jake interrupts, the disbelief, if not shock tinged pity, coming through loud and clear in his voice as he struggles to get his head around the idea of anyone actually... wanting... to work on Christmas Day. “If that's the case then, I'm sorry, I'm going to have insist that you go home and get some rest.”

“If you'd let me finish, I was going to say that as it's so late now I may as well just stay here,” I reply, pointedly looking past Jake and towards the door in the hope that he gets the hint to just leave – period – well enough alone. “I can always catch a nap in the break room, and...”

“You need to go home and get some rest,” he interjects as, looking increasingly determined, he moves further in to the room and positions himself directly in front of my desk. “Look... Things are quiet at the moment, and...”

“I'm fine. Jake, I... I know you mean well but, please, go home to your wife.” Sighing, I push my chair back and, with a grimace of pain as my body tells me in no uncertain terms that I've been sitting in one position for far too long, stand up. “If it helps,” I continue a little breathlessly as, for a horrible second the room spins around me and I honestly feel as though I'm in danger of falling on my ass, I slowly make my way over to the door, “I... I promise that I'll take a nap, and...”

Shaking his head, Jake walks over to me and gently closes his hand around my arm. “You're going home,” he murmurs softly, “and, although I know you're senior to me and all that, I'm not going to take no for an answer. Will, you... You should see yourself. You're still recovering and your body still needs a lot more rest than you're allowing it.”

“I'm fine,” I mutter stubbornly as, not having the strength to shake it off, I have to settle for scowling down at the unwanted sight of Jake's hand as it rests on my arm. “I'm not over exerting myself, and...”

“Think about it,” Jake states, cutting me off. “You're, and don't take this the wrong way, no use to anyone like this, and, given that the office will be on skeleton staff tomorrow as it is, what if you're so tired that you miss something, huh? I'm not saying that you will, but... Come on, Will. You're not firing on all cylinders and you know it. Now, I can't stop you from working Christmas Day, but what I can do is both make you see sense and walk you to your car, so...”

“You're just not going to take no for an answer, are you?” I retort as, wanting to give Jake the impression that I've given up, I sigh heavily and, with his hand still on my arm, begin to move towards the door. Although his logic, for what it's worth, is actually quite sound and I can even see for myself how possibly missing something due to over-tiredness is a viable concern, all I want is to be left to my pig-headed devices and if that means letting Jake think that he's won then so be it. He can walk me to my car, then, as we near it, I'll... suddenly... remember that I've left both my coat and my keys in the office and... That'll just be that. Given that we'll already be in the parking lot, Jake, content in the knowledge that he's made me see the light, can drive off in his car, and I can go back to...

Hiding.

Pretending that there's nothing wrong.

That...

… I'm fine. 

It, ridding myself of Jake and retreating back to the office, isn't a plan I'm particularly proud of, but it'll do.

“You're right,” Jake smiles as, looking relieved, he actually goes as far as linking his elbow around mine, “I had no intention of taking no for an answer, so... Come on. Let's get you to your car.”

“Thanks.” Not seeing any reason to give Jake cause to think anything other than I'm dutifully doing what's expected of me, I feign a grateful smile and let him guide me out into the deserted corridor. “You know, if you hadn't come along I probably would have still been sitting there when the sun came up.”

“Well, we all have our different coping mechanisms, don't we,” Jake murmurs, returning my fake smile with a far more genuine and understanding one of his own as, with a quick shake of his head, he tightens his elbow around mine and gently pulls me in the opposite direction of the closest elevator. “I wouldn't, if I were you,” he mutters, pulling a face. “Thanks to getting just a little too excited at all the free alcohol that was on offer at the Christmas party, Simon from accounts threw up all over it and, as I'm not sure if it's been cleaned yet, I think it's best to avoid that particular elevator for the time being.”

“In that case, lead the way,” I reply as, telling myself that I just have to be patient, that Jake will be gone soon enough, I get in step with him and, side by side, we begin the much further walk towards the next elevator.

Clearly being wise enough to – just take his perceived victory and run with it – know better than to push his luck by chattering at me, Jake doesn't reply and we make our way along the corridor in somewhat awkward silence. Jake, because at some point in all of this he'd just have to have realised that he's effectively nagged me, his senior, in to doing something I clearly hadn't had any intention of doing before he'd come along, and that, hey, maybe he's over-stepped quite a few boundaries in the process, and me, because, well, not only am I basically playing him, but also because it...

It's just how it currently is.

Awkward.

Unnatural.

Fake.

A carefully maintained charade of... blasé... acceptance and coping that, if I don't throw everything I've got in to maintaining it, I'm terrified will come crumbling down around me when I least expect it.

I'm not...

… Me.

There are times when I'd go so far as to say I'm not...

… Anything.

I'm just an actor forced in to... living... out a never-ending role simply in order to make it through each and every day.

It...

It's just how it is.

What's more, if I'm going to stand any chance of actually getting through it, it's just how it... has... to be. 

Soldier on and never, ever look back.

Although my goal is to not say another word until it's time to pull my 'oops, forgot my keys' trick, as we turn the corner and step on to the glass framed bridge that will take us above the entrance hall and finally to the elevator, I see something that not only causes me to stop dead in my tracks but also for a strange, involuntary gasping sound to slip past my lips. “I... Oh... Oh God...” Groaning, I jerk my arm free of Jake's and, despite knowing only too well that I'm at risk of completely losing it here, stumble back into the wall. “I... I didn't... I... How? I...”

“What? Will? I...” Trailing off as he too spots the cause of my – epic – disintegration, Jake gives a small groan of his own and shoots me a sympathetic, if not even slightly embarrassed look. “Oh shit, Will, I... I'm sorry. If I'd known I'd have taken you a different way, or... or even taken the time to check to see if the other elevator had already been cleaned. I... Shit! You've got to believe me, I...”

“It... it's okay,” I mumble as, feeling anything... but... okay, I continue staring at just what it is that's caused me to come so spectacularly undone. “It... It doesn't matter. It...”

“Don't try telling yourself that it doesn't matter, that it... shouldn't... matter, as it does,” Jake murmurs quietly as, leaning his back against the wall next to me, he takes my hand in his and gives it a reassuring squeeze. “I'm not going to stand here pretending that I don't know how much he meant to you, how... the pair of you were far more than just team mates, so... I'm sorry. I honestly didn't know, and, if I had...”

“It doesn't matter,” I repeat hoarsely. “I... I mean, it doesn't change anything, and... it's not as though it wasn't inevitable. So... I just... I...”

I didn't know it was being done now, that's all. On Christmas Eve. No-one mentioned it to me, and...

Whatever.

Of course his name was going to get end up on the memorial wall that takes pride of place in the entrance hall.

Again, as I just said to Jake, it was inevitable. Of course it was. He was an IMF agent, and now he's...

… Dead.

So of course his name was going to go up on the wall.

I just...

Oh dear God, I just hadn't been expecting to... see it. One name amongst so many others, and I...

I...

I can't do this.

I just can't.

“Okay. Change of plans,” Jake states very much matter-of-factly as, keeping his hand gripped around mine, he moves to stand in front of me. “I'm not just walking you to your car, I'm taking you home, and... before you feel compelled to argue, just... Don't.” Pausing, he fixes me with the sort of no-nonsense look that makes me immediately think he'd make a great trainer. “You're tired, probably haven't eaten for ages, and, for the sake of other motorists as much as you're own, I'm driving you home, and... that's just all there is to it. If you still insist on coming back in tomorrow morning you can just call for a driver to pick you up and drive you in.”

“I... I'm fine,” I murmur automatically as, feeling quite unable to look Jake in the eye, I lower my head and gaze down at the carpet. “Thank you, though. It was very kind of you to offer, and...”

“Offer?” he interrupts with a dry sounding snort. “Uh... Sorry, but we appear to have our wires crossed. It wasn't an offer, it was... a statement of fact. I'm driving you home whether you like it or not and, again, that's all there is to it. You're tired, and I'm worried about you. In fact...” Trailing off, he tightens his hold on my hand and places his other hand on my shoulder. “The house is already a little crowded as my wife's parents are down for Christmas, but, well... There's still a bed going spare and, at the risk of coming across as all over familiar or whatever, it's... uh... yours if you feel you'd like it.”

“I...” Forcing myself to look up, I hide my dismay at Jake's admittedly kind and selfless offer behind a weak smile and, after giving his hand a token squeeze in return, shrug off his touch and take a sideways steps away from him. “Thank you for the offer, but I... I couldn't possibly impose on your family like that. It's very kind of you, and I appreciate the gesture, I do, but... as you've probably already gathered I'm not exactly good company at the moment and just need to be on my own.”

“Are you sure? Suzy wouldn't mind, and...”

“I'm sure. Seriously, Jake. I appreciate the offer but, you're right, I'm tired and just need to sleep. So...”

“I'll just be driving you home, then,” Jake finishes, pulling his keys from out of the pocket of his trousers as he looks pointedly towards the elevator. “Again, I'm not taking no for an answer, so... It's either begrudgingly accept the lesser of two evils and allow me to drive you home, or... make your peace with the fact I'm taking you home with me and you're staying the night whether you like it or not.”

“I...” I give up, I just do. I could stand up to Jake if I really wanted to. I could even pull rank on him and hit him with a lecture on 'just who does he think he is', and 'how dare he try to babysit me', but...

You know what?

I just don't have it in me.

I don't have it in me to pretend that the sight of Ethan's name on the memorial wall isn't the equivalent of the final straw splitting in to a million pieces. Nor do I have it in me to pull my planned trick of airily declaring that I'd forgotten my keys and would head home the second I'd retrieved them. Hell, I don't even have it in me to argue with Jake about needing a chauffeur and just want to – lose it in private – be home.

Ethan's dead.

Jane and Benji, despite their – freely given, yet unasked for – promise of sticking around until I'd passed all my physicals and had been declared fit for active duty, disappeared off to places unknown four days ago and I have no idea when it is I'll get to see them again.

It's Christmas Eve, I'm alone, feeling sorry for myself, and...

I can't do this.

I just can't. Not anymore.

“Thank you,” I murmur as, just wanting this over and done with, I start to walk towards the elevator. “I don't want to impose, and can always catch a cab if...”

“I'm driving you,” Jake interrupts, flashing me an unbothered smile as, making no attempt to hide his relief, he gets in step with me. “It's the least I can do, so, come on, just give me your address and let's get out of here.”

Nodding, I rattle off my address before falling silent and, as much for Jake's benefit as my own, just... zoning out. I feel numb, disconnected, even, and, despite knowing that I'm not going to feel any better at home, just want to get out of here. I don't want to be putting Jake out by making him feel as though he's duty bound to get my useless ass home in one piece any more than I want to be feeling like this, but...

Again...

… I give up.

The sight of Ethan's name on the wall having achieved what eight long weeks of convalescence, mourning, and all very logical acceptance couldn't, I'm...

… Done.

I've reached the end of my tether and I quite literally can't go any further.

His innate people skills clearly being far more advanced than mine are currently, Jake accepts my silence without comment and simply guides me to his car as though going out of his way to ensure I make it home is exactly how he'd planned to end his evening. Although I'm grateful to him for both his patience and understanding, I don't trust myself to be able to share this with him without coming across as either insincere or a complete and utter emotional wreck and simply decide that it's better for everyone if I just keep my mouth well and truly shut.

Once we're at his car, a nondescript sedan that I take no notice of the make or model of, Jake opens the passenger side door and waits until I'm safely ensconced in the seat and dutifully pulling my seatbelt on before closing the door and walking around to the driver's side. Getting in, he graces me with what I choose to take as a small, reassuring smile and, to my decided bemusement, gives my thigh a quick pat. “It'll be okay,” he murmurs, placing the key in the ignition and starting up the engine. “Things might seem bad now, but they'll get better.”

Okay...

It'll be okay, he says.

Things will get better, he says.

I want to believe him. Not wanting to exist in this vacuum of pain, misery, nothingness and just... going through the motions for the rest of my life, of course I want to fucking believe him.

The thing is though, I can't.

I can't believe him.

Things... aren't... okay. And nor are they showing any signs of getting any better.

Choking back a sigh, I rest my head against the cool glass of the window and, as Jake drives the car out of the parking lot, close my eyes.

Eleven weeks.

It's been eleven weeks since...

… Everything went so incredibly to shit.

… A routine, not even all that exciting, important, or interesting, mission ended in a devastating, fiery explosion. 

They, the smooth and practised counsellors and well meaning passers by who probably didn't even know that I existed until that brief moment in time when what happened became all anyone could talk about, say that I was... lucky. That... given what so easily could have been – a second slower there, a millimetre or two there – IMF could have been down two agents instead of just one.

Lucky.

I'm...

… Lucky.

Don't get me wrong. I get what they're saying, what they're... getting at. I'm alive, in time will return to peak physical health, and, things, they really could have been a hell of a lot worse. Let's face it, what's a few more scars anyway? It's not as though I was planning on having a mid life crisis and trying my luck at becoming a swimwear or underwear model at any point, so... Yes. It could have been worse. I could have died. I could have lost my bowel. I could have suffered extensive burns. I could have broken my back... or my spine... or my neck. I could have experienced brain damage from hitting my head. I could have drowned. 

But...

I didn't.

I survived. I lived to fight another day, and, again, I'm... 

… Lucky.

I just don't... feel... particularly lucky, that's all.

I'm not saying that I wish I'd died that day as well, or even that I'm so firmly convinced that my future holds so little thrall for me that I'd ever truly contemplate just... ending it all as, contrary to the way I know I'm behaving, that's just not something I'd ever do, but... Lucky? No. I certainly don't feel lucky.

Lonely, however. Not to mention miserable, and... depressed, and... lost.

I feel...

… Lost.

My health will return, Jane and Benji are giving me all the time that I need in order to decide whether I ever want to return to field work or not, the Secretary claims he's more than happy for me to work as an analyst until I know just what it is I want to do, I'm not... a special little snowflake... who has a monopoly on mourning the loss of someone they loved, yet...

Goddamn it, all I really feel is lost and as though I'm existing in a void. I work, do – not because I can see any great benefit from it but because it kills time and, on a good day, leaves me exhausted enough to catch a couple of hours sleep – all the exercises set out for me by my physio, put as much effort as I'm currently capable of in to presenting a halfway functioning façade to Jane and Benji, and that, pretty much, is it. It's far from ideal, and there are days when I honestly don't even feel like getting out of bed, but, when all is said and done, it is what it is.

Ethan's dead, I'm still alive, and...

… What else am I supposed to do, huh? 

Give up? Succumb to my grief and never leave the house? Wave a futile fist at the – self absorbed – unfairness of it all? Simply close the book on that particular chapter of my life and just move on? Become one of... those... people, the ones that become so unhinged in their grief that they don't let the unmistakeable facts get in the way of declaring both loudly and adamantly to anyone that will listen that there's a chance their loved one is still out there and alive somewhere? Fixate on getting my revenge on a cartel that, thanks to the way Jane tore through them in her search for answers, doesn't even exist any more?

I press on, facing up to each day as it comes, because I have to. I have to go on. There might be times when I don't want to, when the thought of never seeing him again feels like there's a hand closing around my heart, but I have to. Not because I subscribe to the greeting card platitude of 'it's what he would have wanted', but because it's just what I have to do.

Heal. Work. Mourn. Take each step as it comes.

It was supposed to be all so easy. Just intelligence gathering, really. A run-of-the-mill mission in Romania that we scored for no other reason than we happened to be the closest team with time on our hands. Go to Mangalia, a town on the Black Sea coast, and report back on whether or not a small, local cartel was trying to make a bigger name for themselves by using the ports as a way to smuggle – just about you name it – weapons, drugs, or people out of the country and in to the United States. Chatter on the underground had come to light about the cartel possibly wanting to get a bigger slice of the human trafficking market and it was our job to prove if there was any life to the story or whether it was just another cartel playing the cunning trick of sending out false intel in the hope of diverting attention from their own nefarious activities. 

If we thought anything of it at all it would have been that, as missions go, it was a walk in the park.

Go in. Sniff around. Write up a report. Be out in a week, tops.

Only...

It wasn't like that at all.

Although only a small operation with delusions of grandeur in relation to mixing it with the best, what the cartel had in their favour was paranoia. That, and an ex-military, explosives expert who just happened to be on their payroll. 

Perhaps we weren't focussed enough. Perhaps we were arrogant and didn't give the cartel the credit they deserved. Perhaps we simply missed something.

Whatever the reason, it happened.

Oh boy, did it happen.

Turning a blind eye on what actually happened here, we thought we'd covered everything. Having studied their movements for three full days, all the cartel members were either duly accounted for or under the watchful surveillance of Jane and Benji, night had fallen, our plan was sound, and, having dotted all our i's and crossed all our t's, we were good to go. 

It...

It was all just so simple.

The cartel having an old fishing boat moored just off the coast, all we had to do was row out to it, climb on board, and have a look around.

Simple.

So fucking simple.

The sort of thing we'd done hundreds, if not thousands, of times before.

Always be on guard. Don't take anything for granted. Watch. Wait. Listen.

Yet...

We missed it.

Both of us, we missed it. The boat was equipped with state of the art motion sensors that, in turn, initiated a self-destruct system designed to ensure that any secrets contained within it never fell into the wrong hands, and we missed it.

Focussed on our task, we missed it until it was too late to do a single thing about it.

In fact, it could even be said that by both meeting up by it, and then opening the nondescript wooden box that contained the explosive device, we effectively signed our own death warrants. Rigged in such a way that when the lid was removed the timer immediately dropped to five seconds, there...

… Was just nothing that we could do. There wasn't even enough time to... think, let alone to actually do anything.

One, or perhaps even both of us might have muttered an 'oh fuck', or an 'oh shit', but that, really, was it. Our eyes met, and in Ethan's I could see the shock and inevitability that I just knew had to be mirrored in my own, and I can remember wanting, desperately, to tell him that I loved him one last time, but I...

I didn't.

I didn't, because I didn't have enough time.

The device working just as its designer had planned it to, it went off, and...

Nothing.

Game over.

When I next regained consciousness for more than a few seconds here or there, I was lying in the IMF infirmary back at D.C. and close to three weeks had passed by without me even being aware of it. I was alive, and safe, and I knew, I just... knew... Ethan was gone even before I'd fully convinced my eyes to open. Although there was a hand wrapped tightly around mine as it lay on top of the bedding, the fingers were long and feminine and I knew, without needing visual proof, that it was Jane playing the role of sentinel over my bed, and that...

… Ethan wasn't there because he couldn't be. That... he'd never be there again.

Lucky.

They, everyone from Jane and Benji, to the doctors and nurses in the infirmary, and all the way up to the Director himself, told me that I was lucky. That I could have died. If the force of the explosion hadn't blown me back on to shore, I could have, like Ethan was, been lost to the Black Sea. Sure, a large piece of debris from the wooden boat might have gone right through my waist and quite literally impaled me on to the sand and, okay, fine, I might have lost a considerable amount of blood and been in an induced coma while it was still touch and go as to whether I'd pull through, but I was still lucky.

Unlike Ethan.

Who wasn't lucky at all. In fact, he was downright... unlucky.

The most likely scenario, the one that the analysts, forensic science, weather and tide experts have all spent hours coming up with, is that Ethan's body was thrown off the boat in the opposite direction to mine and was subsequently washed out to sea. Absolutely nothing working in his favour, a storm – the worst in decades, of course – rolled over the coast not long after the explosion and not only did it hamper the search and rescue operation, but it also made tracking where the water current may have carried his body off to near on impossible.

When Jane, with tears in her eyes while Benji openly cried behind her, confirmed that they'd exhausted all the options and had had to accept that he was gone, I just accepted it. All the scenarios had been played out on computer screens, the nearby coastline had been scoured for his body, Jane, on the very slim off chance they'd picked him up still alive and were holding him somewhere, had handled the interrogation of the cartel personally and was confident that they'd told her the truth about never even having seen him, the experts had crunched the details and had their say, and that was just that.

He was gone.

My best friend, lover, and the most brilliant man I'd ever been fortunate enough to meet, was dead.

But I was the lucky one.

“You said number sixteen, yeah?”

The sound of Jake's voice both breaking in to my reverie and causing my eyes to fly open, I jerk my head away from the window and give him what I just know has to come across as a completely befuddled – Where am I? What are you doing here? – look. “Uh...”

“You said you lived at number sixteen, right?” Jake, who I'm beginning to think really does have the patience of a saint, queries with an oddly cheery looking smile as he slows the car down and gestures out the windscreen.

“Yes, I... I live at number sixteen,” I reply as, feeling even more behind the eight ball than I did a second ago, I sit up a little more upright and peer at Jake in the hope of him explaining just why it is he's suddenly looking so happy “Why?”

“Because, and please don't take this the wrong way or anything, I just never expected to see... this, that's all,” he replies as he once again gestures along the street. “I mean, I know things are hard for you at the moment, and that, hey, you're probably not really feeling the Christmas spirit, but to see that you've still gone to the effort to decorate the front of your house, that... That just gives me hope, you know...”

Decorate the front of my house? What the... ?

It finally dawning on me that I'm going to have to look out the windscreen if I'm going to have any hope of getting to the bottom of Jake's odd behaviour, I glance in the direction he's pointing, and...

What I see makes the shock I felt at seeing Ethan's name on the memorial wall seem like nothing but a token warm up for the main event.

It's just...

Oh God. It's too much.

I don't want to be reminded that it's even Christmas, let alone be subjected to the memories of how special last year was and how... special... Ethan was to me.

Last year, depending on your point of view and whether you wanted to be pedantic or not, was our first Christmas together. Granted, in terms of actual calendar months it was our second, but I don't count the first – official – Christmas for a couple of reasons. Firstly, the team was deep undercover in Kuala Lumpur and the fact that it was Christmas never entered the equation. Secondly, it was still early days in our relationship and, as we were still very much taking things slowly – as in, not really thinking outside the realm of our next fuck – I think it would be a blatant lie to say that either of us even knew where things were heading at that point. It was fun, and I was already hoping for it to turn into something more, but it was far from being set in stone and, even if we had been in D.C. I suspect the idea of exchanging presents and sitting down to lunch together would have been the furtherest thing from our minds. Why, in other words, play at domesticity when you can just fuck?

By the time Christmas rolled around again last year, things had progressed to the point where we'd both, even though neither of us could bring ourselves to admit it, come to realise that there was actually... more... to what we had going on than just a mutually satisfactory sex life. We also, to our surprise and thanks solely to the CIA pulling rank and taking over the mission we'd been about to set out on, found ourselves at home in D.C. for Christmas. At first this was more of an unwanted... culture shock... than it was a reason for joy, but once we'd all gotten our heads around the fact that we'd actually have to participate in the festive season, it...

Well, it took on a life of its own.

Decorations had to be both sourced and put up, plans for Christmas lunch had to be made, presents had to be hastily thought of, purchased, and wrapped. Not one of us being all that sure as to what we were doing, it became like, albeit a somewhat sparkly one, a military operation. Caught up in both the unfamiliarity and – innocent – excitement of it all, I told Ethan about how, as a child, I'd always wanted to be about to deck the front of the house out with Christmas lights. Other houses in the street used to do it but, regardless of how much I begged or promised to fund it all out of my pocket money, my parents just wouldn't have a bar of it. I think they thought it was garish or something like that, or possibly even beneath them, but I loved looking out of my window at night and seeing the house across the street all lit up with twinkling lights and, for some reason, the memory has just always stuck with me.

So, as a throwaway comment, I mentioned it to Ethan before – not wanting to be seen as either childish or sentimental – just laughing it off and going about my business. The next day, having already forgotten about my spot of wishful thinking in relation to Christmas lights, I found myself somehow roped in to going last minute shopping with Benji. All day... last minute Christmas shopping. To describe the experience as hell on earth doesn't even start to do justice to the horrors I suffered that day. Unspeakable queues, foul mouthed, badly behaved and pissed off people everywhere, Benji on some sort of possessed high that saw him refusing to give up until he'd found the perfect, in his mind anyway, present for Jane. To put it another way, if I had a choice between spending the entire day of the twenty-fourth of December shopping, or... having to break in to the Pentagon armed with nothing other than a plastic fork, I'd take the Pentagon in a heartbeat. God knows it would have to be both less stressful and better for my blood pressure. 

By the time it was all over and Benji was convinced Jane would just... love... the limited edition box-set of the Lord of the Rings movies that he'd finally settled on buying for her, it was pitch black and all I wanted when I got home was a drink. A... large... one, at that. I was exhausted, vaguely annoyed that I hadn't been able to either spend time with Ethan or make last minute arrangements for the lunch that was going to be held at my house the following day, and, to put it a little bluntly, I was just well and truly over it. Then...

… As I drove down the street, I saw it.

Christmas lights. All lit up and twinkling, and...

In my yard. Entwined around the two large trees I have on either side of the path leading up to the front door, and hanging from my front porch.

It was just...

… Beautiful. The nicest thing, even, that anyone had ever done for me.

The lights themselves, both the thought and effort behind them, the knowledge that not only had Ethan been listening to me go on about something as... meaningless... as Christmas lights, but that he'd also taken it upon himself to turn my childhood wish into a reality.

Not being one to make a big deal out of anything, Ethan, who was waiting inside for me with a large glass of scotch, brushed off my heartfelt and no doubt quite garbled thanks and merely said that, as Benji had originally asked him to go on the shopping expedition from hell, it was the least – seeing as I'd so nobly taken one for the team – he could do for me. I'd wanted, because I was so touched by his gesture, to go on and on about how much it meant to me but, not wanting to make him regret his kindness, I simply tried to repay him in the only way I could think of and that, of course, was to take him to bed.

Hours later, despite knowing all too well that I was regressing to my childhood, I slipped from bed and, without pausing to put on anything as logical as either a robe or slippers, made my way outside in my pyjamas in order to once again admire the lights. Transfixed, by the gesture behind them as much as by the beauty of the lights themselves, I don't know how long I stood there in the freezing cold or, for that matter, just how stupid I might have looked if anyone had seen me. When Ethan found me, standing on the path in my bare feet and shivering in the night air, instead of chiding me or telling me that I was an idiot for being both so childishly and easily amused, he simply came to a stop next to me, draped his arm around my shoulders and pulled me against the warmth of his body.

And it was then, at that exact moment, that I knew that I loved him, that whatever it was we shared was far more than just a great sex life. And Ethan, I could tell both from how he looked at me and then so very thoroughly made sure that I'd warmed up before taking me back to bed, felt the same way.

Lights, and an... epiphany... all in one night. I could hardly believe my good fortune, or how any future Christmas could even get close to beating it. 

And...

Now it's Christmas again.

Only, it's without Ethan, and I don't want to be reminded of it. All I want is to just bury my head in the sand and pretend that it's not even taking place around me until maybe, just maybe, taking stock in the New Year and, without doing anything as obvious or unoriginal as making a New Year's Resolution, doing what I can to move on.

What I... definitely... don't want is...

… This.

A house and yard lit up in Christmas lights that not even the familiar sight of Jane's black Audi parked in my driveway can detract from.

I'm glad that my friends – as, let's face it, if Jane's here then it only stands to reason that Benji has to be with her – are back from wherever they were called away to, and I know that they mean well and would have only done it because they thought it was a nice thing to do, but...

I wish they hadn't.

Because, oh God, does it hurt.

The beauty of the lights, the memories they're installing in me, the knowledge that nothing can ever alter the fact that he's gone.

“Will? Are you okay?” Jake queries softly as he brings the car to a smooth stop behind Jane's Audi. “If I've said something wrong, or...””

“Thank you for the lift,” I interrupt in a dull, lifeless tone as, despite knowing that I'm being rude, I unbuckle the seatbelt as though on autopilot and open the door. “It really was very kind of you.”

“Just...” Sighing, Jake leans over the passenger seat and watches me as I both slowly climb out of the car and make to shut the door. “Just try to have as much of a merry Christmas as you can, yeah...”

“Merry Christmas,” I reply, deliberately turning a deaf ear to his statement. “I hope you and your family have a truly lovely day,” I add with a forced smile as, noticing that my front door has opened and that both Jane and Benji are waiting for me inside, I gently close the door and give Jake a small wave. “Thanks again for the lift.”

Nodding, Jake flashes me a sad smile in return and, with a quick wave to the others, reverses the car out of the drive before disappearing down the street.

“Will! Come inside before you catch your death of cold!” Jane calls out, giving me an impatient look as, mentally bracing myself for what's about to come, I turn around and begin to head towards the house. “Just... Where's your coat, huh? And, while I'm at it, what's with getting a lift from Jake? Has something happened to your...”

“I forgot my coat when, refusing to take no for an answer because he possibly felt I'd only fall asleep behind the wheel anyway, Jake insisted on driving me home,” I reply, cutting Jane off mid question as, nodding a silent greeting to Benji as he lurks behind her, she suddenly grabs me for a rough, enveloping embrace. “I... I'm fine, though. Jake was just being his usual, overly kind self, and...”

“Crap you're fine,” Jane mutters hoarsely as, with a quick kiss to my forehead, she hugs me even tighter. “We've only been gone, what, four days and I swear in that time you've still managed to lose even more weight. I mean, keep this up, Will, and soon there won't be anything left of you.”

Not having an answer for her in respect to my erratic at best eating habits, I simply return her hug and, putting aside the unpleasant shock of the lights for a moment, just revel in the fact that both she and Benji are actually back in D.C. and here with me.

“Bet you didn't think we'd make it back for Christmas, huh,” Benji murmurs as, not quite looking as though he knows what to do with himself, he reaches out his hand and gives my shoulder a quick, awkward pat. “Or that we'd...”

“Take over your house!” Jane exclaims, abruptly releasing me from her embrace and, unless I'm mistaken, silencing Benji with a quick, narrow eyed look. “I know, I know. You probably think it's too much. Hell, you probably wish we hadn't even bothered, but... Hey! It's Christmas, and if we're going to have lunch here tomorrow then the place needed a bit of a spruce up.”

“Lunch? Here? I...” Feeling more and more as though I'm in danger of being completely taken over, I shove my hands in my pockets and shake my head. “Uh... Thank you, I... I'd love to, but I... The thing is, I'm rostered on to...”

“Not any more you're not,” Benji beams as, possibly feeling a little wary of Jane for some reason, he keeps a watchful eye on her. “Luther's agreed to cover for you, so...”

“Luther? But... Uh... Why? I... I don't mind working. In fact, I...”

“You mightn't, but we do,” Jane declares somewhat airily. “Oh, and don't worry about Luther as he's a well known Grinch when it comes to Christmas anyway. That, and once we'd explained things to him, he actually volunteered his services, so...”

“Look...” Sighing, I take a deep breath and wish A) that I'd just stayed in my office and, B) I could think of a way of getting it through to Jane that the last thing I actually want is to celebrate Christmas without either hurting her feelings or coming across as a crabby prick. “I know you mean well, but... Uh... This Christmas... I just want to...”

“Jane?” Benji pipes up as, his expression one of obvious worry, he glances at Jane and shrugs. “Perhaps this isn't the way after all and...”

“It'll be fine,” she interrupts with both a fleeting smile and a shake of her head. “You'll see, in another couple of minutes it will all be proven worth while, so...”

“Please...” I don't want to beg, but I feel as though they're leaving me no choice. “Jane, Benji, I... I'm glad to see you, I really am, and I thank you for all the effort you've gone to, but I just want...”

“Us to be out of your hair,” Jane finishes, flashing me a truly fake grin that doesn't even come close to meeting her eyes as, grabbing her coat from the rack, she closes her hand around Benji's arm and, as he stares at her open mouthed, pulls him towards the door. “I get it and, look, your wish is our command!”

“But...” Still feeling both none the wiser as to what exactly it is that's going on here and as though I've been hit by a freight train, I shake my head and sigh. “Grinch or not, I'll call Luther and tell him...”

“You'll do no such thing,” Jane replies, once again cutting me off as she bundles Benji out the door before pulling on her coat and retrieving her car keys from one of its pockets. “Christmas is at your place, Will, and that, really, is all there is to it. We'll be back around eleven, oh, and don't worry. You don't have to do a thing. Everything is in the oven, the timer is set and, trust me, this is going to be a Christmas to remember...”

“But I don't want...”

“Your Christmas present is in the living room,” Benji murmurs quietly as, glancing over his shoulder, he both meets my gaze and flashes me what looks to be a genuinely happy looking smile. “And, no... You don't have to wait until tomorrow to open it.”

“But, I...”

“It's Christmas, Will, a time for miracles,” Jane states, linking her arm through Benji's as she leads him towards her Audi. “You'll see...”

“I...” Falling silent, I watch as my friends get into the car and drive off before closing the door and, without warning, just losing it. With my back against the wall, I slump down on to the floor, hug my knees to my chest and, for the very first time, start to sob. Jane and Benji, they mean well, and I really am glad to have them back, but... Everything they've done. I...

I can't.

I just can't do this.

I can't cope with the lights in my yard reminding me of how special last Christmas was, and nor can I cope with the thought of facing up to Christmas Day festivities while all the time knowing that Ethan's dead, that I... 

I'll never ever see him again.

I want to be strong, and – because I need at least some small thing to hang on to – I like to think that I have been. I've taken everything in my stride, continued working to the best of my physical abilities, and perhaps even most importantly of all, I've... accepted... Ethan's death. I haven't denied it, or tried to come up with creative ways to pour doubt over what's believed to have happened and, despite my lingering, at times quite suffocating grief, I've made my peace with it.

He's gone.

Ethan's gone.

And it's not only Christmas Eve, but it's also, at this exact point in time, too fucking much.

I don't want to be sitting on the floor of my entrance hall and both sobbing and gasping for air as though I'm thinking there's no way I can possibly make it through the night. Nor, regardless of knowing I'd only make for completely shit company, do I want to be on my own. Having hit me – and how – with their non negotiable plans for Christmas Day, I wish Jane and Benji had stayed to keep me company instead of, feeling as though their work was apparently done for the time being, skipping out and leaving me.

Maybe...

Oh God.

Maybe I'm not strong.

Maybe things aren't ever going to get any better.

Maybe this, this... lifeless existence devoid of pleasure... really is as good as it's ever going to get.

“Hey... Hey, Will. It's okay...”

My eyes flying open in response to the sound of the painfully familiar voice barely making itself heard over my near-on hysterical sobbing, I gaze wide-eyed at the... vision... standing in front of me and immediately resign myself to the fact that it's finally happened and I've lost what few marbles I had left.

“Hey... Shhh... It's okay,” Ethan murmurs soothingly as, with an obvious grimace of pain, he slowly crouches down in front of me. “Will... Shhh...”

Too stunned by the... cruelly realistic... dream my subconscious has suddenly decided to inflict on me to know, even though I'm confident that it's not actually real, how to react, I stare at Ethan and, breathing loudly through my mouth, press my back hard up against the wall.

Why?

I know that I've lost it. I also know that it's not as though I haven't dreamt about Ethan still being alive before.

But...

This isn't right.

Instead of being – overjoyed – relieved at discovering that he's still alive, I feel as though I'm in danger of succumbing to a full on panic attack, and Ethan, he...

He doesn't look well. 

Pale, and with dark circles under his eyes, he's dressed in black track pants and a grey IMF sweatshirt that seem to be hanging off him, and I swear he looks as though he's lost even more weight than I have. That, and he appears exhausted, as though simply crouching in front of me is taking it out of him.

Granted, there's no mistaking the fact that it's definitely Ethan, and there's certainly no denying that he's still a sight for sore eyes, but, seeing as it's my dream, why doesn't he look, and let's be perfectly blunt here, better? I mean, surely my twisted subconscious should be doing what it can to cheer me up instead of just giving me something else to be concerned about.

Right?

My... dream... Ethan should be fit and healthy looking, not tired, pale, and clearly unwell.

It...

It's not right. Not right at all.

On the other hand though, just in case I needed yet more proof of my inability to remain firmly rooted in reality, I've now got it. Oh... And yay for my fucked up psyche. It pretends to give me Ethan back, but he looks like death warmed up, and I react not with open arms and joy, but by completely losing my shit.

It's just... great. It really is. The cherry on top, really, of what had already been a pretty crappy day.

“I... I don't need this,” I wheeze as, cringing back against the wall, I gesture at the spectre of my lover to keep his distance. “You... You're dead.”

“As it happens, reports of my untimely demise have been greatly exaggerated,” Ethan replies with a somewhat failed attempt at a lopsided grin as, with none of his usual elegance whatsoever, he shifts into a kneeling position. “Come on, Will,” he adds, his smile slipping a little as, with another grimace of pain, he gingerly rests his butt down on his heels. “Stop looking at me as though you're experiencing some sort of bad Dickensian trip and have gotten it in to your head that I'm the Ghost of Christmas Past or something like that.”

“Don't...” Shaking my head, I swipe the back of my hand haphazardly across my eyes in a futile attempt to dry up the tears as, to my great disgust, a strange, strangled sounding whimper slips past my lips. “Just... Please. Don't do this to me. You... You're only a dream. A... A dream I want to wake up from.”

“Just a dream, huh?” Ethan replies, laughing as he gives me a wry, amused look. “Seriously? You're going down that route... again? What is it, your default position or something like that?”

“Route? Default position?” Shaking my head again, I gaze at Ethan and, despite the fact that I really would quite like to wake up now, can't help wait for him to explain himself.

“Halloween. Just over two years ago. In this very house,” Ethan responds, watching me closely as he flashes me a hopeful smile. “Remember? For reasons that I have to admit still aren't very clear to me, you thought you were dreaming when I came around to see you in my overly flashy vampire costume, and...”

“Lestat,” I whisper as, out of nowhere, goosebumps break out across my skin. “You were dressed as Lestat...”

“And you were wearing the Halloween pyjamas Benji had given you,” Ethan continues, the words falling out of his mouth in a rush as, his expression brightening, he inches just that little bit closer to me. “See? You do remember. You thought you were dreaming, and, again, why you thought you were dreaming about me dressed up as Lestat is anyone's guess, and... You weren't dreaming. It was all real. I really was in your living room, just as I... I'm really here now.” Pausing, he reaches out his hand and tentatively places it down on my knee. “Will... Look at me. I'm here. You're not dreaming, and I'm here.”

With tears still running down my cheeks, I shift my knee out from under Ethan's hand and shake my head miserably. “You're a dream,” I repeat in a voice barely above that of a whisper. “You're dead, and I'm dreaming, and I... I just want to...”

“Okay. So you're dreaming,” Ethan interrupts in that matter of fact tone of his that tells me he's about to change tack. “As I'm clearly not doing a very good job of getting it through to you that, hey, this really is happening, how about this... As this is your dream, you tell me what you want to do in it. Do you want me to go away? Or... do you want to talk? While I don't particularly think the time is right, I could explain...”

“I...” Fine. As he's right and this... is... my dream, it's time to take charge and move it along how – if any of it was actually real, that is – I'd want it to go. Pushing myself away from the wall, I shift into a kneeling position and slump into Ethan's waiting arms. “I... I just want you to hug me,” I mumble into his neck as my arms settle around his waist and I hug him to me as though my very life depended on it. It might only seem like a small thing, something, even, that many would argue is hardly the stuff of dreams. To me though, it's nothing short of perfect. Simple, innocent, and very much missed. The feel of Ethan's body pressed against mine as he holds me tight. The both life-affirming and reassuring feeling of his heart beating against mine.

Alive.

Here. With me.

A...

… Dream.

The emotion of the moment getting to me in a way that I can barely understand, let alone successfully describe, I rest my chin on Ethan's shoulder and, even as I'm luxuriating in the familiar sense of comfort that I've always been able to draw from his embrace, start to cry again. Tears spill from my eyes as, not ever wanting to let him go, I clench my fingers into the fabric of his sweatshirt and don't even try to get myself under control. It, crying somewhat uncontrollably, isn't particularly cathartic, and a tiny voice of logic whispers in my ear that I'm both old enough to know better and am just embarrassing myself, but it's honestly as though I can't help it.

“Hey... Shhh... Come on, Will,” Ethan murmurs thickly, his breath warm on my ear as, always knowing the right thing to do, he begins to rub gentle circles into my back with the palm of his hand. “It's okay. I know you think this is only a dream, but... It's not. It's not a dream. I really am here, and I... I don't know what I can do to make you believe it.”

“Just...” Still not believing that there's any way that this could actually be real, I sigh heavily and close my eyes. “Just still be here when I wake up,” I mumble. “If... If this is real, I... I'll believe it when you're still next to me when I wake up.”

“If I'm still next to you when you wake up, huh,” Ethan replies with what almost sounds like a hint of amusement in his voice. “You know something, I can do that, too. I can give you my word now that I'll still be with you when you wake up, but...”

“But,” I sigh. “There's always a but...”

“In this instance the... but... is solely based in the realm of logic,” he responds lightly, “which, even if you do think you're dreaming, I'm sure will have to make complete sense to you.”

“Nothing is making sense to me at the moment,” I counter as, sniffing, I open my eyes and half turn my head so that – blurry though he may look through the tears – I can see Ethan's face. “This... You... The fact I'm even losing it in my dreams now, but... Uh...” Pausing, I give a half-hearted shrug. “Try me. Astound me with your logic.”

“Okay. How about trying this on for size,” Ethan murmurs with a gentle smile. “Looking at you, you're no more up for spending the rest of the night on the floor than I am, so... Let's see what we can do about moving this show onto the sofa, yeah? We'll sleep there, instead of on the floor, and when you wake up you'll see that all of this really... is... real.”

“Okay.” Finding no reason to either find fault in Ethan's logic or argue with him, I wearily squirm free of his embrace, drag myself into an upright position and, without even bothering to see if he's following me, walk slowly in the direction the living room. There's a part of me that acknowledges that I'm being rude, that I should at least wait to see if he needs any assistance getting up from the floor, but, to be perfectly honest here, I simply don't know how to act and almost just want things to just rush through to their natural ending. I know I'm going to wake alone and with lingering memories of a dream I'd give anything to have been real, and, given that I've never been into masochism and don't exactly need any new reasons to feel miserable about at the moment, I really would quite like it to be over and done with sooner rather than later.

Sure, it's nice having Ethan 'here' with me, but what it also just happens to be is almost unbearably painful.

It's not real.

I'm only on my own and dreaming.

And...

… I want it to be real so badly that it hurts.

A strange, light headed and heavy limbed, feeling settling over me like a fog, I walk into the dimly lit living room and discover that – my two very own Christmas Elves – Jane and Benji have worked their festive magic over it with the same level of skill and enthusiasm that they'd applied to the front of the house. Not only has the fireplace been cleared of the – decorative, yet dusty – collection of logs that I can remember stacking in it back in March, but there's also a roaring fire blazing away behind the antique, ornamental screen, and in the corner of the room stands, complete with a small collection of presents underneath, a beautifully decorated fake Christmas tree. Gold and silver baubles jostle for space amongst its lush green foliage, and small golden hued lights bathe it in a warm inviting glow.

Despite it all being very lovely and very Christmassy looking, I pay the unfamiliar looking décor of my living room scant attention and make a beeline for the sofa. Having been spending more time camped out on it than I'd probably want to admit to, I have a dark grey, mink feel blanket already waiting for me there and I pick it up before sinking down on to the sofa and promptly setting about making myself comfortable. Once I've pulled off my belt, kicked off my shoes and loosened my tie, I curl my legs up on to the seat and am just in the process of spreading the blanket out when Ethan enters the room and walks slowly over to join me. My sofa being of a L-shaped design, he settles himself against the corner, where, even in my self absorbed state I can't help but notice is already kitted out – as if it's where he'd been resting before I arrived – with extra cushions and a blanket similar to mine, and stretches his legs out along the padded extension before holding his arm out towards me and waiting for me to join him.

Still subscribing strongly to the 'let's just get this over with' school of thought, I shuffle closer to Ethan and, once he's spread his blanket out over his legs, slide my arms around his waist. He, just as we've done hundreds of times before, then instinctively places his arm around my shoulders and pulls me even more tightly against him. Sighing, as much in contentment as in resignation, I rest my head down on Ethan's chest and close my eyes in anticipation of what just has to be the final act.

A little bit more of the dream, followed by the darkness of nothingness, before I...

… Wake alone.

“Not wanting to dwell on the fact that none of this has exactly gone as I'd hoped it would,” Ethan murmurs, curling his fingers around my upper arm, “is there anything else you can think of that I could do for you? I've already got the whole... still being here... when you wake up thing covered, so... Come on, Will. Surely there has to be something more that I could do for you...”

“Just... Talk to me,” I whisper as, not wanting to be held hostage by my own thoughts, I seize on to the first idea to pop in to my head. “I... I'd like to hear your voice one last time.”

“One last...” Trailing off, he sighs and plants a soft kiss on the top of my head. “Never mind. You'll see. When I'm still here in the morning, you'll see that all of this is true and that you're not, contrary to what you've so very firmly convinced yourself of, dreaming. But... Okay. If you want me to talk, I'll talk. In fact, even though I'd been going to wait until you'd... uh... joined me in... shall we just call it... reality, I'll explain how it all came to be that I'm even here. If, of course, that sounds okay to you.”

Not really caring what Ethan chooses to talk about because all I want is to be able to hear his voice, I give a small shrug of acceptance and, without replying, just wait for him to go on.

“As I'm going to take that to mean you're okay with it, I'll start, oddly enough, at the very beginning,” Ethan replies in a quiet, soothing tone. “So... Here goes. The explosion having a multi-directional blast radius, I was, as I'm sure you're already well aware, blown out into the sea while you were thrown back on to the shore. My memory of the actual event being even more close to non existent that it is just hazy, I can only assume that I was already unconscious before hitting the water and, at the risk of making this the world's shortest and most uninteresting story, that's how I stayed for the next nine weeks. Comatose, and completely oblivious to everything that was going on around me, but... Lucky.” Pausing, he waits for me to show any sign – of life – that I'm following his tale before tightening his arm around my shoulders and with a sigh, picking up where he left off. 

“There's no denying that what I also just happened to be was actually incredibly lucky,” he continues. “ You see, in a piece of luck right out of the Bourne playbook, I was plucked from the sea by a group of fishermen from a small, and I really do mean small, town some thirty or so miles along the coast from Mangalia. Given that I was pretty banged up by this point and would have made for a very sad and sorry sight, the men thought I looked like a local man that had been washed from his boat when the storm hit and, because of this, they just treated me accordingly. Thinking I was their friend, they took me to the town's tiny excuse for a hospital where, seeing no reason to doubt the fishermen's assertions that I was a local, they threw all their limited resources into keeping me alive. Now, because I looked like the missing man, no-one ever saw any reason to run my prints, and nor did anyone make a big deal out of my miraculous rescue. Given that the town didn't have a local paper or, from what I've since gathered, much interest in the outside world, there was no reason for it to have come up on IMF's radar, and... Really, I owe the people of that town everything. They took me in, threw everything they had in to looking after me and when I finally started to come out of my coma and they finally started to see that I wasn't who they'd thought I was, instead of being disappointed that I wasn't their friend they were overjoyed that they'd been able to help me. I was a stranger, and for the first week after waking up I was both too groggy to understand a word they were saying and too... confused... to have much of a clue as to who I really was, but... Eventually everything just clicked into place and, as it dawned on me that I shouldn't be there, that I... I had a life elsewhere, even though I couldn't remember it clearly, someone finally had the bright idea to run my prints and... That was just that. IMF picked up my prints suddenly popping up in Romania, the Secretary decided to assign the task of looking in to why exactly this happened to be to Jane and Benji, and...” Trailing off, he sighs and plants a gentle kiss on the top of my head.

“You can probably guess the rest. By the time they arrived I was feeling considerably more like myself and, when Benji issued forth with the declaration of how my return to D.C. would be the best Christmas present for you, we all just... Well, all three of us immediately jumped on board the idea and just ran with it. It... Shocking you, or messing with your head, or... even upsetting you, that... That was never the plan at all and, thanks to the benefit of hindsight, I'm thinking now the call should have just been made from Romania. Thinking we were on to something, and, yes, despite the fact I was desperate to see you, I was all for it too, we kept to our plan and arrived here probably not that long after you'd left for work. The others then went crazy with bringing Christmas to your house while I simply took up space on the sofa, and... Uh... There you have it. That's pretty much it in a nutshell. Lingering headaches aside, my mind's recovered better than my body has, and the only reason I'm even allowed to be here instead of already being stuck in the infirmary is because Dr Donaldson is wanting Christmas off, but.... I'm here, Will. I... Seriously. You've got to believe me when I say that I really am here...”

His – entirely believable, as it happens – story having come to an end, Ethan falls silent for a couple of seconds before sighing heavily and beginning to rub his hand gently along my arm. “Hey... More tears? It... Come on, Will, it's okay. I'm here, and everything really is okay.”

“I...” Not even having been aware of the tears that are once again spilling down my cheeks until Ethan mentioned them, I sniff miserably and clench my fingers into his sweatshirt. “I... I just want it to be real so much...”

~*~*~

Waking, I realise two things simultaneously. The first is that I'm in bed, while the second, as I blink my eyes open, is that the room is in complete darkness and I wouldn't have a clue as to what the time could possibly be. There being no hint of daylight peeping in through the drapes, I can only assume that it's still night or, at worst, early morning and, given that I can see no reason to put any effort into finding out what the actual time is, simply close my eyes again and roll over. Smiling to myself in the dark, I arrange myself more comfortably around the warm body stretched out on the bed next to me and, with a yawn, simply wait to back to sleep.

It wasn't a dream.

Ethan, he...

… Really is here.

Alive, and sound asleep next to me.

Everything that happened late on Christmas Eve, it...

… Really did happen.

From the lights adorning the front of my house, to all the tears, disbelief and stubborn dedication to my conviction that the only reason Ethan was back with me was because I had to be dreaming, it...

...Was all real. 

I woke this morning, this... Christmas... morning, with a headache and not in bed like I would have expected, but on the sofa in the living room, and, most amazingly of all, draped around the – very much still alive – body of the man I love.

And I don't think I've stopped smiling since.

What's more, thanks to having had a day to work through everything in my head, it all makes perfect sense to me now, too. The locals who rescued, looked after, and inadvertently hid Ethan, did so entirely out of kindness and there's nothing to be achieved by trying to find a way to blame either them for how they went about things or IMF for not having thought to search through every tiny town in a fifty mile radius of Mangalia. It was just... one of those – unexpected, but incredibly fortunate – things. As for the unfortunate timing of his name appearing on the memorial wall, that too was just... one of those things. Due to the Secretary wanting to keep the possibility of Ethan still being alive a secret until it was confirmed beyond all doubt, he hadn't thought to call off the sign writer, and, due to said sign writer wanting to clear his book before going off on his holidays, he'd put his name up on the wall both at the last minute and without telling anyone.

I can even, thanks to both hindsight and the best Christmas Day I've ever had, accept everyone's reasoning for not wording me up on what was going on in Romania and just leaving it for Ethan to stroll out of my living room. Granted, it – the surprise to beat all surprises – didn't exactly go to plan and instead of being overjoyed I... lost the plot instead, but... It's okay. I get why they did what they did and, if I'd been the one in Ethan's shoes, I suspect I'd have readily agreed to go along with the idea myself. Sure, I regret how I reacted, and it goes without saying that if I could do it all over again that I'd do things very differently, but...

Whatever.

What's done is done and, even more importantly, all's well that ends well.

Albeit battered, bruised and a long way off being fit for field work, Ethan's alive. He's alive, we're together, and I know now that everyone who's ever said is right.

I am lucky.

Both of us, actually.

We're both lucky.

Incredibly lucky.

~ end ~


End file.
